


home runs and stolen hearts

by itoldyounottoeatthesoap



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Baseball, Angst, Catcher Shiro, Competition, M/M, Misunderstandings, Pining Keith (Voltron), Pining Lance (Voltron), Pitcher Keith, Pitcher Lance, Rivalry, Slow Burn, Sports, Wingman Hunk (Voltron), adding tags as we go, i still don't know what tags are, stupid trades, too much baseball knowledge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-24 01:40:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30064695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itoldyounottoeatthesoap/pseuds/itoldyounottoeatthesoap
Summary: McClain stands and takes one big breath, his chest rising and causing the gold metal to glint once more. He glances back at Kinkade and adjusts his feet.Keith’s heart only pounds harder and harder.McClain releases the ball, and Keith recognizes this pitch as his slider a millisecond too late.He swings.
Relationships: Hunk & Keith (Voltron), Keith & Pidge | Katie Holt, Keith & Shiro (Voltron), Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 17





	home runs and stolen hearts

**Author's Note:**

> hey guys! 
> 
> this is just me projecting my love of baseball onto my favorite gays so, uh, yea. 
> 
> since its baseball season it felt fitting to write something and post it.
> 
> hope you enjoy :)

Keith swings his bat experimentally as he stands in the on-deck circle. His blood pulses in his ears, rivaling the noises of the crowd. He fixes the brim of his helmet, shoving it a little bit tighter on his head and he fiddles with the straps of his batting gloves as the pitcher starts to stand. Keith brings the bat back to his shoulder, resting it until McClain winds up for the pitch. 

He takes a swing in time with the pitch, feeling something slightly off as he finishes, the bat wrapping around to his back. 

“ _ Strike. _ ”

Keith lets out a long breath, releasing the tension that harbors in his shoulders. He glances at the jumbotron- a mistake, really- and sees Kinkade’s face on the opposite side of McClains. Displayed neatly in the middle of the two, along with the roaring crowd and blinding lights, is the scoreboard. 

Bottom of the 9th, 2 outs, 2-2.

Voltron: 5; Daibazaal: 6.

7th game of the World Series. 

Keith glances back over to McClain, switching between the jumbotron and the mound. McClain fiddles with the brim of his hat while he receives the sign from his catcher, Richardson. He looks good, despite having thrown for eight innings, a near-impossible feat, especially in the World Series. 

Too bad Keith’s keeping up with Lance just as well. 

McClain’s gold chain glints as he shifts his weight on the mound, the color a pretty contrast in the bright lights against caramel skin. 

His next pitch is slightly off the mark, a little bit over the meaty part of the plate and Ryan capitalizes on it. The bat makes contact with the ball with a loud crack, and the ball goes hurtling down the right-field line. 

Keith holds his breath as Young fields the ball and prepares to throw Kinkade out at second. Lotor covers second, his legs straddling the sides of the bags as he prepares to receive the ball. The sound of the ball hitting the leather of his glove is in tandem with the sound of Kinkade hitting the dirt and his cleat making contact with the base. 

The ump raises his arms out, motioning that Kinkade was safe, and Lotor haphazardly throws the ball back to McClain with an apologetic smile. McClain receives it, tilting his head down to fix the dirt by his feet, filling in a hole made by his cleats. 

Keith steels himself, walking up to the plate. He takes his time, despite the roar of the crowd and the watchful eye of his dugout. He makes direct eye contact with McClain, and not for the first time, Keith wonders if his eyes would be bluer if Keith were closer. 

His heart thunders in his chest as he lifts his bat up to the sky and looks up the barrel until he reaches the end. Keith can barely make out any of the dark sky above them, the field lights making it impossible to see past them.

He steps into the box, the white chalk half worn away from the amount of use. He digs his back foot into the dirt and rocks the bat in his hands.

After countless hours of studying and a few sleepless nights, Keith has finally figured out McClain’s slider. He knows when it breaks, knows that McClain only shakes Richardson off in favor of throwing his slider. 

Keith also knows that McClain always pitches him a slider first. 

Every. 

Single. 

Time. 

Keith, on his next breath, holds it for two seconds before releasing it, the muscles and the tension leaving his body as he focuses on one thing: hitting McClain’s pitches. 

Keith watches as McClain stands, glancing behind him at Kinkade, who’s taken a nice lead at second. 

McClain winds up, and Keith is prepared to hit the shit out of the slider. 

Instead of hitting a home run that would win the game, Keith absolutely whiffs on McClains fastball.

Keith levels a glowering glare at the pitching mound as he steps out of the box, glancing over to their third-base coach. 

McClain tilts his head down as he gives Richardson a wink. His smirk is disgustingly big, and Keith can’t wait to wipe it off with his home run. He shakes his head and gets back into the box. 

McClain leans over, his long legs white lines against the background. The top button of his uniform has come undone, and his pants shorter, showing off the purple socks. 

Keith shoves his foot harder into the dirt of the batter’s box.

Listen, Keith is gay, and baseball is a beautiful sport. 

Sue him.

McClain leans back, and Keith’s bat matches the rhythm McClain is setting. His front leg rears up, and it stretches across the mound. Keith coils, his hands going back before coming forward again. 

His next attempt fouls off into the stands on the right, and he scrunches his nose. 

He backs away, knocking the dirt off of his cleats with his bat before bringing it up to rest on his shoulder. 

McClain stands back up, his glove in front of his face. He doesn’t bother to glance back at Kinkade. He winds up, and Keith barely has enough time to appreciate the near-perfect form before he watches the next pitch go by. 

The ump stays silent as Keith glances back to Richardson, his glove tilted to frame the pitch on the corner of the plate.

1-2. 

McClain shakes his head as he receives the throwback from Richardson. He kicks a small amount of dirt over the mound, before wiping it off. He goes to the back and picks up the small bag of chalk, drying off his hands as he holds the ball in his glove. He takes off his cap, revealing tousled and sweaty brown hair. It’s curled across his forehead, and he uses the back of his wrist to wipe the excess sweat off. He replaces the cap and shuffles on the mound.

Finally, he stands. His face is serious, more serious than Keith has ever seen him, with his mouth set in a tight line, and his eyebrows furrowed. McClain adjusts the brim of his cap once more as Keith steps into the box. 

A sense of finality fills Keith’s senses. It burrows its way into his stomach, and his heart fills with a hardness that lets Keith know that this pitch is going to end the series. 

And one of them will win. 

Keith feels the weight of a city, and a nation, watching him and cheering for him. His bench watches in rapt fascination, and the crowd is roaring just as loud as they were when he first got up to bat. 

He lets the smell of gum, pine tar, sweat, and popcorn fill his nose as he takes one final inhale. He levels his own stare back at McClain as his bat returns to hovering over his shoulder. 

McClain stands and takes one big breath, his chest rising and causing the gold metal to glint once more. He glances back at Kinkade and adjusts his feet. 

Keith’s heart only pounds harder and harder. 

McClain releases the ball, and Keith recognizes this pitch as his slider a millisecond too late.

He swings. 

And instead of hearing the gorgeous sound of the ball hitting the bat, the echo of the ball hitting leather behind him sounds like an explosion. 

Silence rings throughout his ears as he watches a large grin stretch across McClain’s face as Richardson charges the mound, catching gear and all. Gloves are thrown into the air as the people from the dugout bring the giant tubs of Gatorade onto the field. 

Keith vaguely feels himself walking away from the field, his senses overcome with the feeling of numbness. He’s trembling, from anger or sadness, he doesn’t know. 

All he does is watch the celebration happening before him with only one thought: it should’ve been us.

McClain gets thrown over Richardson’s shoulder as a bucket of Gatorade gets dumbs on top of him. 

His smile reflects the light of the crowd. 

~~

_ Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. _

Keith blinks.

He flails around for a moment trying to find where he had thrown it last, before nearly falling off the bed. 

He squints his eyes at the bright screen, lit up with messages from Shiro. He opens his phone and clicks off the video he was watching. He flinches when the audio continues to play even after the app is closed.

“ _ Kogane steps up to the plate. McClain has a choice to make. He has the count in his favor. _ ”

“ _ Nyma, we all know how nasty McClain’s slider is. How likely do you- _ ”

Keith buries his head under the covers as he finds a way to shut the sound off. 

The volume finally dies and only then does Keith look back at his phone. 

_ Shiro (1:55pm) _

_ You good kid? _

_ Shiro (2:01pm) _

_ Just answer when you get this.  _

_ You’ve been MIA the past week. _

_ Come hang with the team today. _

_ Shiro (2:32pm) _

_ We’re going out at 5. _

_ I’ll pick you up. _

_ Shiro (4:12pm) _

_ If I don’t see you outside your complex I’m dragging you out myself.  _

Keith groans and runs a hand down his face. The gnawing feeling of guilt still has left him, even after a month. 

Keith hadn’t been able to look at the TV, or social media for days after the game. He’d been bombarded by interview requests, mentions, and comments, and he still is being begged for a look into Keith Kogane’s mindset during the fatal last pitch. The clip has spread across the internet like a wildfire, and Keith really doesn’t have the energy to deal with it. 

_ Keith had prepared for months trying to figure out that motherfucking slider, and he still missed. That son of a bitch- too bad he doesn’t hit or he’d be whiffing on Keith’s motherfucking pitches too. _

Keith turns his head back into his pillow, shoving his face into it and letting out a sigh. When he takes his next deep breath, his nose fills with a pungent smell that makes him want to gag. 

He rolls over and sits up, coughing. He rubs at his face and wrinkles his nose. He lifts the hem of his t-shirt and flinches when he smells the odor lingering on the cotton. 

Maybe he  _ should _ get out of bed. 

He throws his legs over the side, his toes touching cold flooring as he meanders to the bathroom. His legs are shaky, and his vision goes black for a few seconds, the cons of eating his feelings in a tub of Rocky Road and watching shitty horror movies with shitty popcorn. 

He strips and turns the shower boiling hot, hoping that it would soothe his achy muscles and his bruised ego. 

Fuck McClain. 

He runs his hair under the stream of water. 

Fuck McClain and his stupidly good slider, fuck McClain and his asshole of a team, fuck McClain for looking so goddamn pretty all the time-

Keith’s really dug himself a hole here, hasn’t he?

And yea, maybe when he was sulking after the game, he  _ might’ve _ tuned into the post-game press conferences, and he  _ might’ve _ seen Lance McClain standing almost shirtless in the locker room, with that shiny gold chain around his neck, face flushed and his obnoxiously pretty grin stretched across his face and his blue eyes-

But still. Fuck Lance McClain. 

Keith takes a bar of soap off the shower ledge and runs it angrily up and down his body. 

Keith hasn’t been this angry as a singular person since college in freshman year when he was taken out of the game prematurely so the senior reliever could pitch, who gave up five runs in the end. Their coach never made  _ that  _ mistake again. 

He turns off the running water, and runs a towel through his hair, shaking it out with a quick movement of his head. He pulls on his t-shirt and sweatpants after hanging up his towel on the back of the door. 

His kitchen is a mess, the result of rifling through the cabinets to find something appetizing after the loss. He ignores it all in favor of an apple and grabs his coat before heading outside. 

Shiro’s black Porsche is waiting for him in the front. Shiro stands in front of him, shorts and a deep muscle tee, scrolling through his phone with two hands. Sunglasses rest atop his head, and when he looks up, they fall down onto the bridge of his nose. 

“Keith! Hop in.”

Keith grabs onto the passenger door and throws himself into the car. 

Shiro glances behind them before driving off at 30 miles per hour, despite his fancy sports car and engine. 

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going after you not so nicely dragged me away from my bed-”

“Actually, I dragged you away from your sulking.” Shiro takes his eyes off the road for a millisecond, which is when Keith knows he’s about to get  _ dad’d _ by Shiro. His tone grows soft. “It’s not good to watch yourself make the same mistakes over and over.”

And Shiro should know. Despite his four World Series titles, he’s lost just as many as he’s gained. 

Keith remembers his sophomore year of college, watching Marmora face off against Arus. He remembers sitting in his dorm, watching the five-game of the series as it turned into one of Marmora’s worst showings in ten years. His mouth was shoved full of shitty one-dollar ramen as the rookie, Shiro, was unable to block a wild pitch in the bottom of the 9th inning, allowing Arus to score the winning run of the game. 

Shiro’s only five years older than Keith, but he’s been in the MLB for almost eight years now paired with two different teams across America. He’s a veteran on the team, and Keith is lucky to have him as his catcher. 

“It still would’ve been nice if you let me brood,” Keith mumbles, crossing his arms over his chest. “Let me lose in peace.”

“And miss a fun night out with the guys? I don’t think so.”

“Shiro, your idea of a fun night is playing card games until someone passes out from boredom. I don’t think you and the guys share the same idea of ‘fun’."

Shiro chuckles. “Listen, I just think you’ll enjoy it, okay?”

Shiro pulls into a parking lot, filled to the brim with sports cars and high-end cars. Keith gives Shiro a look.

“I still don’t know where we are.”

Shiro puts the car into park and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re giving me more gray hairs than I wanted at 33,” he mutters. He opens the door, and gestures for Keith to do the same. The warm Arizona air ruffles through his clothes and his hair as he gets up from the Porsche. 

“Why are sports cars so stupidly low?”

Shiro glances over at him, looking over the stupid sunglasses that sit on the bridge of his nose. “Just because I won’t let you drive your death machine  _ that management doesn’t even know about _ , doesn’t mean you can come here and disrespect Atlas.” 

“I still can’t believe that’s what you named your car.”

“Says the guy who named his motorcycle  _ Red _ .”

Keith scowls. “Shut up.”

“Keith?” A voice shouts from behind him. “Shiro you finally got him out of his bed!”

Keith wrinkles his nose as he turns to them. “Pidge, I’m not a hermit. I could throw you across the parking lot  _ right now _ -”

“But then you wouldn’t have your second baseman, and we all know there’s nothing else better than having the Holts as your middle infield.”

Shiro chuckles from behind him. “You can shut up,” Keith hisses, a smile growing across his face anyways. 

Large arms wrap themselves around Keith’s middle as he’s lifted into the air. His legs kick out as he shouts, “Hunk! Put me down!”

Hunk chuckles and finally Keith’s feet hit the ground. “We missed you! It’s too bad you didn’t go to a couple of parties after the game, the food was great-"

Shiro smacks Keith on the back. “Let’s head in, shall we?”

Hunk grins sheepishly as he leads them into the building and down a long hallway. Keith can hear loud engines roaring from behind the doors as they walk by. “And,” Hunk says, “here we are.” He opens the door, revealing a room, much like the special boxes at the stadium meant for sponsors and owners, watching over a large course. 

“Where- Where are we?”

“Aha,” Pidge exclaims. “You are in our box, that my brother couldn’t attend and had an extra space for you to watch cars race around a track for three hours.” They check their watch on their wrist, shiny gold glinting in the dark lighting of the room. “It seemed like something you’d enjoy, plus, it starts in five minutes.”

Keith finds himself staring out the window, his hand reaching out to the glass. He glances back to Pidge, then to Shiro. “Got that one correct. I wanted to be a NASCAR racer when I was younger.” Keith shrugs. “Then I met baseball.”

The cars come out, lazily following the road and the cars in front of them. This may not be NASCAR, but Keith still feels the same excitement he used to feel when he was younger. The cars travel in irregular lines of two before speeding up and hitting the starting line. 

“And they’re off!” the announcer says from the radio in the corner. 

Car number eight is in the lead around the first bend and Keith tears his eyes away from the track, justifying it with the fact that there are still hours left of the race. His gaze lands on the TV, mounted on the wall across from him, framed by bookshelves on both sides. 

He reads the headline “Jennifer Lopez and Aaron Rodriguez split after 2-year engagement” running across the bottom of the screen. He blinks, rereading the headline again. 

A screech echoes in the room as Hunk shouts, his voice tinged with anguish, “They broke up?!”

“Well,” Keith muses, “now we know love isn’t real.”

Even Pidge lifts their head to look at the screen. “Damn,” they say, returning to whatever project they have this time. “That wasn’t something I expected to see today.”

Even Shiro is dumbstruck. He glances from the TV to Hunk and back to the TV. “Did I read that right?”

“Yes, you did,” Hunk says before tacking on an, “unfortunately.”

Shiro pinches his eyebrows together. “This is troubling.”

Hunk switches the channel, in an attempt to find more information. “Someone has to have more information,” he declares, a chicken wing hanging out of his mouth as he flips through the channels.

Hunk lands on the tail end of the segment, the reporter announcing, “The couple still says they’re together, but sorting things out at the moment. Back to you, Chris.”

The video flips, showing a man sitting at a desk with a bright smile. “And with another baseball story, the World Series Champion, Lance McClain, visited Disney World today, accompanied by his shortstop, Lotor Prince.”

Another video pops up in the center of the screen as Hunk frantically tries to change the channel, instead accidentally turning up the volume. 

Lance stands in the middle of a float during one of the parades. He’s waving to the crowd as they cheer, and he takes a handful of candy from Goofy’s float and throws it out. The video cuts, showing new scenery. He takes a picture with Ariel, and even entertains a few kids running around. He plays around with a few of the fake Star Wars guns at a store before the video cuts again. 

“Well, we’re happy that one of the baseball stars is enjoying himself this fine afternoon. And to our regularly scheduled program-” 

“Hey Keith, stare any harder at the screen and it might break,” Pidge calls from where they kneel on the ground. 

Keith wrinkles his nose at them. “Shut up,” he mutters. “It wouldn’t break.”

Shiro claps his hand on Keith’s shoulder. “Well, at least Car 86 is in the lead now,” Shiro says, pointing to the window. 

“That’s the car I bet on,” Hunk says proudly, his eyes still glued to the screen. He sighs dramatically as another clip of McClain fills the TV screen. “Do we have to hate him? I kinda want to be friends with the guy- See! He even has a good taste in Disney characters.”

“He beat us, Hunk! That could’ve been our only chance to win the World Series in our careers and we  _ lost _ . Who knows? Any of us could have a career-ending injury and we could’ve had a championship under our belts-” Keith snarls, dropping whatever plate he has in his hands to turn to face Hunk. 

“Clearly this is still a super sore subject,” Pidge half-whispers to Hunk behind their hand. 

Keith throws his hands up. “ _ Obviously _ ! Why are you guys not as upset?”

“Hey man, as much as I love the sport, I’m getting paid and playing well. Would I like to win a World Series? Sure, but my family will be better off either way- championship or no championship,” Hunk says in surrender. 

“Keith,” Shiro says, his tone placating. “It’s not that. You learn to deal with big losses like this. It’s not something worth spending months mulling over for us. That doesn’t mean we don’t carry it around like a chip on our shoulder, we’ve all just learned how to deal with it the best so we can move on and make next season better.” He pauses. “Patience yields focus; you’re still young in the industry, don’t forget that.”

Keith scowls, turning back to the window to watch the cars race around again. 

Maybe becoming a NASCAR driver would’ve been less emotionally painful. 

He wouldn’t have had to deal with Lance McClain if he had been a NASCAR racer. 

Keith sighs. Loudly. 

It’s not that he  _ hates _ Lance McClain. Okay, maybe he does a little bit, but that’s because Keith lost to him and Keith doesn’t like losing. 

Lance was distastefully arrogant during the press interviews leading up to the World Series, with his famous smirk adorning his face. 

_ How do you feel about going up against Keith Kogane, Voltron’s pitcher, who has taken the baseball world by storm? Do you think you’ll be able to match him? _

_ I think he’ll have to be worried about matching me.  _

Okay, well. Lance  _ was  _ right. But that doesn’t make Keith feel any better. McClain didn’t have to be so goddamn smug about it. 

Ever since McClain’s been promoted into the big leagues, there’s been a weird, underlying tension between them that Keith has never been able to figure out. Paired with an odd, made-up rivalry that became the talk of the media after their first game playing each other, which Keith was blissfully unaware of until Shiro mentioned it to him in the locker room, Keith has no clue how to act around Lance. 

He thought, maybe, despite being on opposite teams, they could’ve been friends.

But no-

Shiro shakes his shoulder repeatedly as he shouts, “Look at Number 46 go-”

Pidge pokes their head up. “That’s the car I chose.”

“Last lap!” the radio says from the corner. Pidge crawls over to the window with Hunk not far behind. 

“86 isn’t doing bad, maybe I’ll still be able to earn money-” Hunk mumbles, only to get cut off by the announcer. 

“46 keeps his lead on all the other cars as they enter the last lap- now, coming up on his tail is 74 and 86. 74 nudges a bit ahead and they pass the last turn- 46 wins!”

Pidge holds out their hand and Hunk places a twenty-dollar bill in the center. They turn to Shiro, who is rifling through his wallet. 

“My car didn’t get anywhere close,” He says, defeatedly, giving his own twenty into Pidge. 

Keith claps Shiro on the back. “Maybe we should stick with baseball, buddy.”

~~

“Nice, Keith!” Shiro calls from the other end of the batting cage. “Good spot.”

“Way to move that curve!” Coran shouts from behind him. “It moved faster than a wombat could’ve seen it. Just try to make it break earlier and you’ll be ready to go by the time spring training officially starts!”

Keith wipes the sweat from his forehead before taking the bag of chalk off to the side to dry his hand. He winds up again, taking a larger stride to get power from the ground, and releases the ball. It hits Shiro’s mitt with a satisfying  _ pop _ as Coran’s phone begins to ring. 

“That looked good, number three! Keep throwing it, I’ll be back faster than you can say, ‘ phalangeriformes’ !” he walks away and picks up the phone. He moves further away from the cage as Keith gets ready to throw another curveball, Coran’s response muffled by the sound of Shiro’s mitt. 

Coran hangs up and jogs over to them as Keith and Shiro’s phones light up with notifications. 

Keith’s eyes narrow as he watches the way Coran runs. “What just happened?”

“We’ve got a new team member joining us!”

“Who?”

“Lance McClain from Daibazaal.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yea, lance's team is idiotic for getting rid of their best player but oh well, the red sox did that a couple of years ago. 
> 
> anyway, i hope you enjoyed the first chapter and i'll see you when the next chapter comes out!


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